Flirting With Danger
by Orange-Coyote
Summary: Kurt Hummel, known to the public as Porcelain, takes a breaks from scourging the seas to visit a friend in France. Little does he know he's not the only one. When Nightbird, the pirate version of Robin Hood, ends up in the same establishment, Kurt finds his curiosity overwhelming any sense of logic. It's a bad idea to get any closer to this fellow rogue, but he does it anyway.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I have returned, after a prolonged absence, to the world of writing. Even this little story took me months to write, on and off, just because I haven't been feeling the muse lately I guess.**_

_**Anyway, this is a pirate AU and there will be a second part to it forthcoming sometime in the future (it's half written atm). This is the most descriptive writing I've done in a while so I hope it came out okay. My terminology might be a bit off, so apologies ahead of time for that.  
**_

_**For anyone reading this, may your 2015 be filled with love, laughter, and happiness.**_

* * *

Keeping his footing while the ship pushed through an onslaught of choppy ocean waves became second nature years ago for the renowned pirate bearing the simple moniker of Porcelain. Sunset happened to be his favorite moment of the day and for this reason every evening the pirate captain stood at the bow of his ship, facing due west, his eyes drinking in the soft hues of pink and orange painting the sky as would a man sighting an oasis after days of trekking the Sahara.

Memories of his dearly departed mother hit his chest full force as they always did during this nightly ritual. Her affinity for pink skirts and orange flowers, the way she always smelled of roses, the sound of her laughter, her smile, the soft melody of her voice.

He forcibly brought himself back to the present, wary of portraying any vulnerability to those of his crew still on deck. Emotions on a pirate ship were a dangerous concept. They could easily lead to death, mutiny, and a number of more trivial effects that Porcelain didn't bother himself with. The vitality of his ship came first, plain and simple.

Satan, his first mate since the beginning of his buccaneering career, kept vigil from her perch inside the crow's nest. He could hear her Spanish mumblings from where he stood and fought the urge to laugh aloud. Instead, he reigned in his mirth and called out to her.

"Lopez, anything to report?"

"More water only, Captain."

Porcelain sighed under his breath. He'd been getting the exact same report from his lookouts for the last three days. The sail time from England to France was estimated at ten days. He'd rather not wait that long.

France provided a safe harbor for him, along with the many luxuries only Paris could give. Being fluent in French came in handy as Porcelain could don the local clothing and charm any man or woman into handing over exactly what he desired. Whether it be provisions for his ship, liquor for his crew, or an indulgence in their more carnal instincts, he never failed.

This simple fact evoked respect from his men. His infamy in Europe mixed in just the right amount of fear. And his penchant to participate in their commonplace singing sessions (no sailor on Porcelain's vessel would deny their captain's natural talent) inspired the admiration that completed the perfect trifecta every ship captain aspired to.

While the sun set fully beneath the waves beyond the horizon, allowing the dark of night to take center stage, Porcelain watched as his night crew dutifully lit lanterns placed strategically across the main deck. His own cabin sat untouched, awaiting his arrival.

Satan gracefully slid down the main mast as she turned her station over to the graveyard shift watchman, a gruff man known as Puck. The two traded a pleasant insult as he passed. Once he seemed safely settled, Satan made her way over to her captain.

"You look more pensive than usual."

"Observant as always, bestie."

She shrugged. "It's my job to keep my captain fit to serve."

"Is it now?" he inquired, his tone a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"Even if it wasn't, I'd still take on the matter, _Kurt_."

Kurt laughed despite himself. "You truly are a good friend to me, you know."

"We made a promise to another another, in the beginning" she murmured, her eyes shifting to survey their immediate surroundings. "I don't know about you," she commented, her voice again at its normal tone, "but I always keep my promises."

"Indeed you do," he replied. His mind flashed to a particular incident involving an angry Latina and a man being thrown overboard in the middle of the Atlantic.

"Get some sleep, Porcelain," his first mate softly ordered. Her hand laid across his shoulder and turned him in the direction of his cabin with a gentle kind of force. "I'll watch over the ship 'til morning."

Kurt sighed, loud and dramatic, but acquiesced to her request, knowing this was a battle he'd never win. Before stepping away, he laid a hand on his bestie's shoulder in return. A small wave of warmth filled him, a sense of love and affection he had thought lost forever after the death of his parents. Santana, bless her stubborn, brash soul, had found him destitute in that filthy alleyway and had given him a purpose again. For that, he would be eternally in her debt.

Four days late, after facing a sudden storm as well as an ambush from a group of lesser pirates mistakenly thinking they would emerge victorious, _the Elizabeth _pulled into French waters and docked within a harbor off the Parisian city limits looking no worse for its recent trials. Kurt took pride in running a tight ship armed with two small cannon and a crew trained in the arts of close combat.

He looked down upon the busy waterside market with masked glee. _Finally_, he had arrived.

.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.`.

Disembarking along with three of his most trustworthy men, Porcelain entered town with three main goals: acquire enough food and other necessary supplies to refill his depleted stocks, enjoy a nice lunch somewhere with a glass of fine wine, (it had been much too long since the last time), and pay a visit to his local connections.

He would take care of his connections first. One or another would feed him and that would kill two birds with one stone. Then he and his men would walk back to the marketplace at the central square and retrieve the items needed for the ship before they embarked on their next run. Whether he felt generous enough to actually pay for those goods had yet to be decided.

Will Schuester ran the music program at the small school hosted every summer in the city. His wife, Emma, taught English to the grubby-faced farm children whose parents couldn't afford a traditional education. The couple lived a simple life in a simple home. Kurt had met the man years ago after a ruin-in with a group of particularly determined French soldiers, in search of shelter and finding protection in Will and Emma's unquestioning hospitality. Will had offered Kurt a safe haven as well as a few voice lessons over the week he had spent laying low in their residence. Though the couple were both a bit eccentric (Emma cleaned to the point of insanity and Will never stopped singing), Kurt found himself endeared. He owed them for their generosity, no matter how much they disputed this claim and insisted otherwise. It was for this reason that whenever he was in the area, he always made it a priority to stop by for a visit.

Will told him all about current events within France (apparently the crown prince had caused a scandal when he attended a royal ball with a woman, not his betrothed) as well as the progress of his music students (they were slowly getting the hang of things) over a cup of freshly brewed coffee, a delicacy in its own right. Kurt savored the taste of the rich, dark liquid smoothing its way down his throat, warming his belly as it entered his digestive tract. Emma insisted, in her sweet disarming way that made him feel guilty if he denied her, that he and his men stay for lunch. Kurt, though he hesitated at the thought of eating a chunk of the couple's food supplies, couldn't find it in his heart to decline. His men took seats at the tiny wooden table that served as the dinner table with words of thanks, knees tucked carefully beneath the tabletop and elbows kept against their sides in an effort to not take up too much space. The room was small enough as it was.

In total, the group spent two and a half hours in the quaint home.

By the time he had finally convinced Emma that he _really needed to go_, the sun had passed its zenith, following the path to its slumber. By the look of things, he had just a few hours until nightfall. Hopefully the merchants weren't in a haggling mood.

Walking confidently through the throngs of people heading in the same direction, Porcelain basked in the sights and sounds around him. Soon the scent of freshly baked baguettes hit his nose and he followed the aroma to its source oh so happily.

After this quick pastry detour, he acquired some milk, tea, and fruit to be added to the ship's bounty. He then sent his men back to the ship with their word they would deliver the goods safely into Satan's hands before allowing themselves any fun in town. Disobedience, as all his crew knew, would lead to punishments twice over. Porcelain took the mantra "all for one, and one for all" very seriously.

With his men thus dismissed, the captain approached the butchery all by his lonesome. The man who owned and ran this specific meat shop, Hiram Berry, was a close friend none of his men knew about. Kurt planned to keep them in the dark for a long time to come.

'Why?' you may ask.

Well, let's just say the butcher and the scoundrel had a certain inclination in common.

The chime hanging on the door jingled as Porcelain slid it shut behind him. Hiram, a man in his early forties, looked up from his knifework and smiled.

"Kurt! Come in, come in!"

Kurt allowed a small smile to grace his lips in reply at the sight of Hiram's blood-splattered apron. In any other circumstance the man's appearance was spotless, completely at odds with his day job.

The two shared whispered confidences and loud guffaws as the butcher finished quartering the chicken laid out before him. They then took their banter to the privacy of Hiram's storeroom, where their conversation continued in earnest.

A half hour passed with Kurt detailing his adventures in England to Hiram's amusement before the sound of a tinkling chime drifted into the room from the direction of the street front, effectively ending Kurt's tirade against the bitter liquid the English dared to call coffee. Hiram made apologies for the interruption., then moved out the door to check on the potential customer.

Kurt followed quietly behind, despite the fact his face and name held a bounty in this part of the country. He'd never been caught before and he didn't plan to start now.

All thoughts of evading capture at any cost fled the man's mind at the sight of the man now conversing with Hiram. Here stood a pirate as well-known across the European seas as Kurt himself, albeit for different reasons. Nightbird, thus called because of his tendency to attack at night and the signature whistle used by everyone among his crew, became infamous a few years ago for taking a Robin Hood approach to his thievery. Dark curls, bright eyes, and cropped breeches made the man unmistakable in the clear lights of the butchery.

Maybe Kurt didn't know Hiram as well as he had thought.

What type of merchant would do business with not one, but TWO sea rascals? Apparently Hiram Berry didn't eschew a little danger.

Kurt shuffled closer, carefully concealing his lithe frame behind a wooden bean. Keeping his eyes and other senses sharp, he focused his ears keenly on the discussion taking place before him.

Even with all his effort, Kurt could only fully understand small snippets of murmured words. Something about fruit being overripe and Nightbird's men sending theirs thanks. Kurt concluded it must be some sort of code.

Just when he felt comfortable in his hiding spot, Kurt saw a shadow shift from the corner of his eye. Immediately he moved into a defensive stance, silently thanking his father for those few years of grueling fencing lessons on the beach near his childhood home.

"I see we have company," the man commented, seemingly amused by Kurt's presence. Kurt preferred another response altogether.

Seconds [passed and the man made no other move; he just stood there, smirking like the cat that caught the canary. Kurt warily relaxed his body, moving to match the nonchalance Nightbird portrayed.

The other man smiled. "I expect nothing less from a fellow pirate."

Kurt smoothed any involuntary surprise from his features before replying, "And who are you?"

Nightbird narrowed his eyes, the action emphasizing the dark line of his full eyelashes. "I am well-known in these parts, as are you."

Kurt continued to feign ignorance, adding a touch of disinterest just to see the pirate's reaction. So far he was enjoying this. "Well-known to all but me it would seem."

Nightbird released a puff of air, the tension leaving his shoulders just as quickly as it had appeared while his former glare became replaced by a smile. "Two can play at that game."

Kurt shrugged. "Whatever you say."

The other man turned his attention back to Hiram, confidently (stupidly, in Kurt's opinion) leaving himself vulnerable to anything his fellow pirate may have planned. Luckily for him, Kurt took his idiocy at face value and decided to see what else he could glean from the ongoing conversation.

"Well, Berry, thank you again for your assistance."

Drat! There went that plan.

"Not a bother at all," Hiram insisted. "You know you can come to me anytime you find yourself in need of a helping hand."

The two men shook hands, Kurt silently watching the exchange for any ominous signs. He found himself wondering about Nightbird's past with Hiram, what exactly the two had been through to establish such a seemingly warm acquaintance. What did Nightbird even do between runs? Did he have a wife and child sequestered somewhere safe from harm? What was he currently doing in France?

A throat being cleared brought Kurt back to his present situation and he internally badgered himself for letting his guard down. And beside an infamous pirate at that!

"Porcelain," at that Kurt tried to keep a blank face, "I believe you owe me a drink."

Kurt skeptically raised a brow. "Do I?"

Nightbird leaned causally against the pillar opposite. "Indeed you do. Remember the night of September 1st?"

Kurt followed the man's lead, comfortably resting his shoulder against the wide column of wood he had hidden behind just moments before.

He had a vague recollection of the night in question: a run-in with a merchant ship that surprisingly managed to keep his crew at bay for hours before escaping. Had that vessel been under Nightbird's control?

Determined not to give him an advantageous edge, Kurt merely shrugged.

"Allow me to enlighten you," Nightbird drawled. "Two ships, one called _The Elizabeth_, the other known as _Pavarotti_. Entangled in a heated battle, the two respective captains found themselves at a stalemate. The smarter of the two decided to save time and ammo, making a strategic retreat." night paused, cocking his head to the side and searching his listener's face for any signs of recognition. Kurt made certain he found nothing.

Their eyes met fully. Kurt couldn't help noticing how much Nightbird looked like a puppy despite his fearsome reputation.

"You damaged my ship," the man huffed. "Took two weeks to repair, _two weeks_. I should have been out on the water that entire time. I think it's only fair you buy me a drink to make it up to me."

Kurt lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, giving no further response. He relished in the annoyed frown that subsequently overtook Nightbird's features.

"If you've suddenly gone mute, a simple nod of acquiescence will suffice."

Kurt took a long moment to analyze the pros and cons of the proposal. On one hand he'd no longer have the looming threat of Nightbird's presence on his mind. Plus he may end up garnering some valuable information once his fellow pirate became good and drunk. On the other hand he'd have to place himself in a dangerous situation: alone with a pirate. Were the potential benefits worth the definite risks?

Santana would kill him is he humored such a brash, irresponsible whim. He had an entire group of people relying on him back at the port.

But a part of him, a admittedly large part, wanted to get to know this man. Some, if not all, of the man behind the reputation. What harm could a drink or two really do?

The other man's stern gaze morphed into a sincere smile. Kurt quickly quelled the rebellious flutter of his heart at the sight.

As Nightbird extended his hand in wordless invitation, Kurt wondered what possibly convinced him this excursion was a good idea.

He took the man's hand nonetheless.

* * *

_**A/N: It feels good to have finally typed this up. Reminded me of how much I enjoyed writing this in the first place.**_

_**How is everyone feeling about the final season of Glee thus far? All the 'gleegoodbye' tweets from the cast are killing me softly.**_

_**Leave a review, good or bad, if you'd like and I'll very much appreciate it!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: This is why I usually try to only write one-shots... I take forever to write continuances lol. The bar woman is actually named after and based on my aunt that was in town when I started this. She cooks the best food.**_  
_**Anyway, I just finished this up yesterday when I had nothing better to do. I wrote the first half of this chapter the same time I wrote the previous chapter (in October) so it may seem a bit weird flow-wise, and I apologize in advance for that.**_  
_**French bits are in italics, but it's just basic words here and there so nothing worth worrying over. I'll leave a glossary in the end notes, just in case.**_  
_**Hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

Following in Nightbird's hurried footsteps, their hands still loosely clasped together to avoid losing one another amongst the rush of sailors and merchants crowding the docks, Kurt again questioned his sanity.

What kind of man not only agrees to a drink with a man who technically constitutes a rival and could kill him at any moment, but also secretly thinks aforementioned rival sports a glorious ass?

The renowned and widely feared Porcelain, apparently.

Kurt shook his head of the wayward thoughts, veering to the right just in the nick of time to dodge a cluttered peddler's cart. Weren't those people forbidden in these parts?

Finally their journey slowed to a peaceful pace and Kurt took the opportunity to fully appreciate their surroundings. This part of France nearly gleamed any time of year, but in summer, as it was now, the vibrant pinks and whites of fresh blooms brought a soft smile to the pirate's otherwise carefully composed features. The smell of sea salt mixed pleasantly with the scents emanating from the row of taverns and shops lined before them: fried fish, roasted vegetables, freshly baked breads, along with sweet wines and fruits. The less pleasing odors of sweaty men, piles of rotting garbage, and neglected private waste containers were pushed to the back of his mind with practiced ease. Only when they stopped fully before a weather-beaten wooden door did Kurt return his gaze to the cause of his presence here. Nightbird seemed glad to have finally caught his attention.

Kurt read the name on the sign above the door, half out of curiosity, half out of habit. _The Crane._ How poetic, considering the man beside him held an apparent penchant for birds in general.

After a brief pause, he allowed himself to be led into the establishment. Nightbird waved to the man and woman working behind the counter filling cups and bowls with ale and stew, respectively. The familiarity of the action irrationally put a portion of Kurt's nerves at ease.

The two men seated themselves at a table tucked away in the far left corner, far enough to avoid prying eyes and eavesdroppers as well as the potential of being recognized by any vigilant member of the law. Once they settled, the woman from before bustled out from behind the counter to approach their table.

"Hello," she greeted politely. Kurt was surprised to learn she had a light Spanish accent, something not altogether unheard of but definitely still somewhat rare in his travels along this section of Europe in the past. The woman gave Nightbird a knowing smile and he instantly felt his earlier nerves return full-fledged. Knowing smiles shared between strangers were never a good thing.

"Hello Rosana," Nightbird replied amicably. "My usual, if you don't mind."

The woman nodded while jotting something down on her pad of paper. She gave Kurt a quick nod of acknowledgement before hurrying off to the back room of the tavern. Kurt followed her with his eyes.

"We've never taken the time to formally introduce ourselves," Nightbird commented, bringing Kurt's gaze back to the man's admittedly entrancing hazel eyes. He assumed the slightly younger pirate charmed his way out of nasty situations fairly often with those eyes. "I'm Blaine. And you are?"

Wait... was Nightbird seriously offering up his real name? It probably was just an alias. Should Kurt answer in kind?

Some part of Kurt registered sincerity in the other's tone and expression, causing him to make a quick decision. A decision Santana would later call "idiotic and insanely stupid."

"Kurt."

Blaine smiled, something Kurt noticed the man had done often so far in his presence. "Such a common name for such an incredible man."

Add errant blushing to the checklist of Kurt's clearly decreasing control of his sanity.

"'Blaine' speaks of Italian origins, does it not?"

Blaine nodded. "Well done. Not many catch that distinction."

Kurt surveyed the other man's tanned skin, dark curls, and full lips. The signs seemed obvious enough.

The bar woman chose that moment to return with a mug of ale and a glass of red wine, placing the mug before Blaine and the goblet in front of Kurt. Blaine thanked her for the service, turning back to find Kurt fixing him with a questioning glance.

"'The usual' consists of ale for myself and whatever Rosana believes my companion will enjoy most. She's proven a good judge of character in my experience."

Kurt raised a brow but said nothing aloud, instead bringing the goblet to his nose and delicately sniffing its aroma. Swirling the liquid as his mother had taught him in his youth, he followed the movement by tipping the glass against his lips. He allowed the wine to touch his lips, admiring the light notes of oak and grape, before parting to take a sip. The wine slid smoothly across his palate and down his throat, leaving a tart yet earthy taste behind. He hummed appreciatively, taking another sip before returning the goblet to its place on the table.

"Rosana and her husband Pierre make that wine themselves," Blaine informed him, a hint of pride just discernible in his voice. "They age it in the cellar below our feet."

"Impressive," Kurt responded. Perhaps they'd sell him an unopened bottle to take with him when he left.

"I agree." Blaine drank from his tankard, eyes slipping shut momentarily as he savored the flavor. His lids fluttered open again just as quickly, leading Kurt to wonder just how much ale he had time to consume during his travels. Or maybe the brew here happened to be particularly orgasmic.

Kurt decidedly drew his mind away from the topic of orgasms. "Perhaps we should get down to business."

"I thought we already were," Blaine countered. It still felt odd addressing the pirate by an actual first name, even in his own head.

"Trying to persuade me to invest in Rosana's wine business? I may be half inclined already," Kurt joked, though really he _was_ half inclined. If his current glass was any indication of the woman's prowess, he'd be making a safe investment.

"I won't dissuade you of it," Blaine assented. "Though I'm sure she'd appreciate the support from so sophisticated a source, I was referring to our sharing a drink."

Kurt couldn't help but preen. Just a little. He _was_ sophisticated, after all, and it was nice to know someone noticed.

"Well, if that's all we're here for. How anti-climatic."

"Would you prefer a duel?" Blaine challenged, one eyebrow raised in that way Kurt sort of envied.

"If you're so desperate to lose, who am I to deny you the pleasure?" Kurt smirked, just to get his point across. In no way did he find amusement in this banter they'd cropped up. Over drinks.

An outside viewer with no prior knowledge of their histories may even construe their current situation as a date, since they didn't know any better.

"Who says I'd lose?"

"Fond as I am of a man with a competitive streak to match my own, I feel obligated to inform you of a tiny fact: I never lose."

"You just hadn't faced me yet," Blaine boasted. "But that can easily be arranged."

Kurt grinned slyly. "Are you propositioning me?"

"Maybe. Is it working?" Blaine inquired with an equally sly smile.

Kurt shrugged indifferently. "Perhaps."

Before Blaine could comment, Rosana swooped in with two platters covered in various foods. Kurt glanced curiously at Blaine's plate before alighting his attention fully onto the dish being placed at his elbow. He belatedly moved his hands from where they held his glass in front of him and allowed the platter to be moved into a more convenient position for consumption.

"Fish and chips for you, as per usual," the kindly woman addressed to Blaine. "And for you," she nodded toward Kurt, "a pair of escargot atop a bed of mixed greens served alongside seared scallops drizzled with a lemon vinaigrette."

"Why does _he_ get the fancy stuff?"

Rosana merely laughed at Blaine's expression of petulance. "Because I am sure _he_ appreciates it much more. Aren't I right, sir?"

Kurt already loved this woman for her wine, but her blatant teasing manner whenever Nightbird was involved just cemented the feeling further. "I'm sure you are. Blaine doesn't really seem the type. And please,_ je m'appelle Kurt, mademoiselle_."

"Aren't you a charmer," the woman replied with a grin. "I'll have to keep an eye on you."

"I hope to see you often in the future," Kurt concurred.

"_Oui_. Now, eat your food before it grows cold and unappetizing. I will come back to check on you _dans un moment_."

"_Merci_."

Rosana blessed both men with another smile before taking her leave to attend to a group of men causing a stir at the bar.

"So you speak French," Blaine observed dryly. "Fluently, I suppose?"

Kurt grinned unrepentantly. "Of course. One _does_ usually know one's native tongue."

"Really? I'd never have pegged you as a Frenchman."

"Why ever not?" Usually Kurt's flamboyant style and straightforward way of speaking gave people that impression without him ever needing to bring it up. Fortunately, he'd lessened his accent over the years.

"You're much too... kind," Blaine admitted slowly.

"I'll have you know my fellow countrymen and I far outrank any nation when it comes to manners, etiquette, and socializing. Not to mention our better cuisine, philosophy, and, of course, wine."

"Ah. See _that_ is exactly the attitude I would expect of a Frenchie."

Kurt huffed. "No man may disrespect _mon pays_ and expect to go unchallenged."

"I see that now. I've learned the error of my ways."

"I'm glad." Kurt chose to end the conversation on that note, instead putting his mouth and hands to much better use: devouring the delicious looking food laying innocently before him, blissfully ignorant of its inevitable fate.

Apparently Rosana, or perhaps Pierre, possessed all the artful finesse of the most distinguished chefs in the country of France, if not the entire continent of Europe.

Kurt consciously withheld the satisfied moan attempting to leave his lips as the first escargot slid across his tongue and smoothly down his esophagus, leaving a trail of slightly spiced warmth in its wake. He pointedly ignored his wide-eyed companion's incredulous expression as the second snail joined the first within the confines of his digestive system. He was perfectly allowed to savor a delicacy his country was famous for, especially seeing as it happened to be several months since his last indulgence.

Kurt then picked up the knife and fork kindly provided with his dish and set about meticulously slicing his scallops into bite sized pieces for easier enjoyment. After he completed the menial task, he liberally spread some of the leftover lemon vinaigrette over the salad of mixed greens occupying the left half of his plate.

He looked up from his ministrations to see that Blaine, fingers slick with frying grease, had already devoured half of his battered fish and a decent sized chunk of the accompanying fried potato slices.

Blaine had the decency to looked abashedly down at his plate, and then gave Kurt an apologetic glance and a shrug.

"Table manners fit for a true rogue," Kurt quipped, not unkindly.

"And you, with table manners fit for a prince."

Kurt shook his head in dismissal of the compliment, focusing on acquiring a piece of scallop in the tines of his fork and bringing the food up to his lips without dropping it. A tantalizing scent filled his nostrils, causing his mouth to water in anticipation.

He decided to quit torturing himself and quickly parted his lips, sliding the morsel onto his tongue and relishing in the tangy yet savory flavors.

This time he allowed a sigh of appreciation to escape as he chewed and swallowed.

"Absolutely delicious," he remarked aloud, uncaring if his privateer peer paid any attention to his opinion.

"I'm not surprised," Blaine commented, idly dipping a potato slice into a bowl of gravy Rosana had procured for him. "At this point I doubt there to be any culinary endeavor Rosana could not succeed in, were she to put her mind to it."

"And what about you?" Kurt inquired, sipping from the wine glass a young girl in an apron had just refilled for him. "What endeavors do you put your mind to?"

"Me?" Blaine seemed to ponder the question for a long moment before answering. "Occupations much like yourself, I'm sure."

"Every person has some hobby or other to occupy spare time for recreation. What do you do? Sing, dance? Write, or paint perhaps?" Blaine showed no visceral reactions to any of the suggestions. Either the man had perfected the art of feigning disinterest or his personal hobbies were something else entirely of a darker persuasion that Kurt would rather remain blissfully unaware of. "Humor me," he added in a last ditch effort to gain some intel.

"Every man on my ship sings," Blaine acknowledged, "myself included. Neither dancing nor painting appeal to me, especially on a moving ship."

"Reasonable enough."

"I've heard tell that you are quite the vocalist yourself."

"My crew dabbles in the art as well, yes."

"Perhaps some times you'll do me the honor of a private performance."

"How tenacious of you, to assume such a thing."

Blaine smiled, that shy smile Kurt had witnessed only once before during his time spent with the man. The kind of smile that left a small glimmer in his eyes and a pang of _something_ in Kurt's chest.

The constant flirting did nothing to lessen Kurt's urge to just forget about _Porcelain _and _Nightbird_ and all the responsibilities and obligations attached. To just drag this man to the nearest private place and indulge his more carnal desires. For just one moment to be _Kurt _and _Blaine_. getting to know one another with no motive other than the gently simmering heat Kurt could sense beneath the surface between them. To make a choice Santana would deem "positively _wanky_."

"God, what have I gotten myself into?" he muttered dejectedly, keeping his voice at a quiet mumble to lessen the chance of Blaine overhearing.

"Is that a yes?"

Kurt chuckled despite the turmoil of thoughts occupying his mind, bringing his gaze from soft lips to bright eyes. "We'll see."

Blaine grinned at him charismatically and Kurt forced himself to look away. "It's not a definitive rejection, so I'll take it."

They sat in silence for the next several minutes at they finished their meal. Kurt refrained from licking the plate clean, sufficing himself with licking the last vestiges of flavor from the tines of his fork and the flat edge of the knife.

Rosana, keeping up her record of perfect timing, sidled up to their table. One hand held a trio of empty tankards while a stack of used plates took residence in her other hand. She looked between the two pirates, lips quirked in a friendly smile. "I hope your dishes were to your liking?"

"Of course," Blaine answered, his open expression a stark contrast to the look of silent contemplation he had worn just a moment before. "I have nothing but praise and love for anything you provide."

"My meal was exquisite," Kurt agreed. "I have never enjoyed escargot so fully before in my life. _Tres magnifique._"

"You flatter me so," their hostess preened. "I cannot take all the credit. My darling Pierre made this all possible."

"My compliments to _ton mari_, _aussi_."

"_Merci, Monsieur Kurt."_

"It's growing late into the night, so I'm afraid your _dear Monsieur Kurt_ and I will take our leave. Thank you so much for our wonderful meal." Blaine stood, removing the stack of dishes from the woman's grasp. He took her free hand in his, placing kisses on both of her cheeks. "You spoil me, truly."

"Signor, you know you are _always_ welcome here." Rosana returned the kissed, then turned to Kurt. "And you, _mon cherie_, you'd better make my inn your second home. Yes?"

Kurt stood and brought the woman into his arms, carefully taking her occupied hand into account. He squeezed gently and pressed an affectionate kiss to her cheek and forehead. "Of course, _mon cherie_. I would like nothing less."

Following a small squabble in which Rosana refused to accept payment and Kurt persuaded her to accept just a minimal donation toward her prospective vineyard, the two men reemerged onto the boulevard in high spirits.

The sense of camaraderie and ease from within _The Crane_ continued to manifest itself as they walked toward the crossroads intersection where they would be forced to part ways to carry on business as before.

Fortunately, the roads seemed generally deserted to the ways of the night, only the occasional man or woman crossing the pirates' path. No one paid much attention to them and the threat of being recognized and turned in to local authorities seemed unlikely.

Blaine suddenly pulled Kurt behind a nearby shed, the darkness of the alley and the height of the building providing temporary protection from prying eyes.

Kurt glanced questioningly at the other man but received no answer to his unspoken inquiry.

"Is something wrong?" he asked aloud.

Blaine looked him straight in the eye. Kurt felt as if the gaze could pierce directly into his soul.

Slowly, as if expecting violent resistance at any second, Blaine leaned forward to lessen the distance between them. Soon their foreheads touched and Kurt felt a shiver of suspense run up and down his spine.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Blaine grasped Kurt's cheeks in his hands while smooth lips grazed against a slightly chapped pair.

Kurt sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. A soft whimper escaped his throat when Blaine pulled away.

"Until we meet again, Porcelain," Blaine intoned solemnly as he slipped his hands from Kurt's cheeks, his fingertips lingering for a millisecond longer before he turned away.

"_Au revoir,_ Nightbird." Kurt watched the man depart until his back faded from view, his hands slightly trembling at his sides. "Until we meet again."

* * *

**_A/N: *French translations*_**  
**_"je m'appelle Kurt, mademoiselle" = "my name is Kurt, madame"_**  
**_"oui" = "yes"_**  
**_"dans us moment" = "in a moment"_**  
**_"merci" = "thank you"_**  
**_"mon pays" = "my country"_**  
**_"tres magnifique" = "very magnificent"_**  
**_"ton mari, aussi" = "your husband, too"_**  
**_"monsieur" = "mister"_**  
**_"mon cherie" = "my love" (term of endearment, not really the romantic meaning, in this case)_**  
**_"au revoir" = "goodbye"_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: The chapter completely took a different turn than I was expecting. More klaine in the next one though, I promise.**_

As expected, Santana nearly suffered a heart attack followimg the course of Kurt's adventures at port. She spewed insults forn a full three minutes, some even Kurt didn't recognize, before calming down enough to ask more appropriate questions regarding his encounter with Nightbird. The duo spent hours in Kurt's private cabin, only interrupted once when Puck brought in some wine and fruit to keep them sustained until dinner could be prepared. Eventually Santana was true to her nickname ane brought uo the topic of conversation Kurt preferred to avoid like the plague.

"How was he in bed?"

"Satan! I didn't have sex with him!"

The young woman snorted. "Of course not. You're too pure."

After a moment of silence Kurt sighed. "He kissed me," the pirate captain grudgingly admitted. "And then he left."

"What's wrong? Use too much tongue?"

Kurt huffed a breath. "It was time to part ways."

"Let me get this straight. Bird Boy gets you to take him out, basically flirts with you the entire time, kisses you at the end of the night, and then just leaves you behind without so much as a 'thank you I had a nice time'? That's fucked up."

"I appreciate your twisted level of concern, but it's nothing to worry over."

"You keep telling yourself that, Mr. Hopeless Romantic."

Santana left the room before Kurt had the chance to utter a scathing retort. "Whatever," he muttered to the empty room.

A month had passed with neither hide nor hair of Nightbird. Kurt threw away any stupid hopes of seeing the other man again after two weeks of various imaginings of the kiss they had shared in the darkened alleyway in France. Hummels /did not/ pine over men who obviosuly didn't think much of them in the first place. Every few nights his dreams would be infiltrated by hazel eyes or dark curls. Less often, though still often enough, his waking dreams would incite a sense of arousal he hadn't been victim to in years, not since his last failed attempt at love. It made no sense to be so infatuated with a man he knew so little about. /Love is blind/ his mother used to say. /That's why I married your father./ Then his parents would joke and embrace each other. Over the years Kurt's expectations of love followed similar standards. He wanted someone to tease, to cook for, to love unconditionally and be unconditionally loved in return during thr best years of his life. Did that make him a hopeless romantic?

"Sir?"

Kurt, stirred from his silent turmoil, glanced at the man addressing him. "Yes, Brett?"

"Dinner is served, sir."

"I'll be down in a moment."

"Of course, sir." The man left as quickly as he had arrived.

Kurt stood, sighing. Moments like this almost caused him to regret being so amiable with his crew.

The longstanding tradition of Kurt dining with his men began years ago in light of the first (and only) attempted mutiny aboard his ship. A man, Jesse, fraught with greed and envy, somehow discovered the weak links among the sailors and persuaded them to join his cause. He proclaimed their captain selfish, hiding away large portions of money won to keep as his own. If /he/ were captain instead, he'd make sure everyone received equal shares and give Porcelain what he deserved. He told of Porcelain's violent mature, his inherent dislike and dismissal of anyone brave enough to stand up against his injustices. One night, while half the crew slept peacefully in their hammocks below deck, Jesse and his loyal band of thirteen scoured the ship and restrained everyone they came across. Kurt and Santana sat discussing the plans of the next day when the mutineer burst into the small room with a dagger in hand and a triumphant grin on his face.

Sadly for Jesse, he underestimated his captain's finesse in the art of close combat and soon found himself pinned to the wooden floor beneath Porcelain's polished boot.

The men of the unloyal band were corralled to the main deck, then tied to one another like a train of slaves. They watched, along with everyone else, as their leader was trusseled and led to walk the plank. Kurt offered the group mercy, against Santana's orders, and the men grovelled gratefully at his feet. No man could question their captain's generosity or fairness again without being reminded of the lives he so kindly spared.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Two long days later, /The Elizabeth/'s watchman hunkered down in the crow's nest rose excitedly to his feet. "Land ho!"

Kurt, standing regally at the bow of the ship lost in his own thoughts, heard the call and replied in kind. "Whence?"

"Starboard, Captain. About 12 degrees from you."

Kurt turned his body in the indicated direction and frowned. "Satan!"

"Yes, Captain?" the woman inquired as she instantly appeared at his side.

"Where are we?"

"Just off the southern coasts of England, sir."

"Do you know this place?"

"Yes, sir. It houses the coastal town in which Mercedes Jones runs her new bakery."

Kurt well remembered the dark skinned seamstress-turned-baker. Her pastries were nearly as beautiful as the cloths she weaved. "We shall visit, " he declared. "Puck! Steer us toward safe anchorage!"

"Aye, aye, Captain."

Santana hurried away to assistin raising and lowering the appropriate sails, leaving Kurt alone to admire the oncoming landscape. Dorsetshire, he heard his crew murmur. The name previously eluding him.

Jagged cliffs made way to rock-strewn beaches. Vivid greens peeked their fertile fields into view between every other boulder along the cliff sides, hinting at farmland and meadows beyond the sea's reach. Bewlow, the dark, deep waters of the ocean cleared and calmed to crystal, displaying yellowed sands and various small fish flirting with death.

Looking upon the land like this never ceased to fill his heart with an unhindered sense of serenity and wonder.

A natural arch of limestone served as their docking place several feet out from shore. Anchoring any nearer would cause unnecessary harm to the vessel. Besides, his row boats would prove more than sufficient for this quick detour. "Satan and I will go alone, I think," the pirate captain stated in a tone of willfully casual finality. Puck already looked as if he would argue as soon as the words hit the air, but he sulkily kept silent.

"Is that wise?" Kitty Wilde, the only woman on board aside from Santana brave enough to question her captain, shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. Her hands rested heavily upon her hips.

Kurt smiled, remembering the day he had first met her in a darkened London brothel. Before he allowed his preference for men to become public knowledge, people attempted to gain his favor with a night of women and fine liquor. They didn't know he shared the booze and learned the men's dirty little secrets.

"Is questioning your captain wise?" Santana retorted, ostensibly in his defence but primarily to scold him for letting a subordinate speak their mind unquestioned. Kitty merely shrugged in light of Santana's aggressive behavior. "Sometimes." Kurt deigned to interrupt before his first mate decided to pull a dagger from her hair and determine the other woman's loyalties. "Be it wise or not, it is my wish." Kitty stared at him for a moment, then shook her head in dismissal. "It's your funeral."

Kurt smiled again, this one more of amusement than anything else. He'd been told to expect his death so many times the word was slowly losing its meaning to him. "We shall see."

Puck and a fellow sailor with bleached hair and plump lips assisted Santana and Kurt into one of the rowboats hanging astride the ship's landward side. The men both gave a respectful salute before pulling in the ropes until the small craft hit the water with a soft splash.

Santana took up the oars, positioning herself so thag Kurt could sit comfortably up front with no worries of their boat tipping over.

Breaking the silence that had settled like a blanket of fog around them, she let out a long breath once they were out of earshot from the crew. She postured sardonically, "I hope you're right about this. Otherwise all of your moping and mooning these past weeks will have been for naught."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Doresetshire presented itself as a quaint seaside village, known across Europe solely for its goryeous views of the ocean and its kind inhabitants.

Kurt, however, knew more than the normal traveler. For instance, he entered the town fully aware of the growing rumors regarding hidden treasure troves spread among the rocky cliffs. He knew for a fact that the village housed the most delicious pastries in the entire world. And, thanks to Santana's conniving ways, he now knew that a certain curly-haired buccaneer had a contact he visited regularly once every few months located just outside Dorcetshire's boundaries. Primarily Kurt' s decision to come ashore relied upon the revelation that Mercedes Jones' decadent desserts laid within reach. A much smaller (much, much smaller) supporting reason could only be named madness.

Once their small boat had run ashore, Santana mad her rules and expectations of their little excursion loud and clear.

"First we'll visit Mother Teresa's bakery so you can indulge your cheesecake desires, though why anyone would purposefully want cake made of cheese is beyond me. Then while you ensue upon your embarrassing quest to get laid, I'll scout the marketplace for any goods and information that may prove useful to us. Understood?"

"You sound as if you are the experienced captain whilst I am merely a moony horndog and nothing more," the man in question observed flippantly.

His first mate stared back, her expression giving the distinct impression she saw nothing wrong in his assessment of the way things stood.

"I'm not ignorant, nor am I naive. I will not romanticize what was so obviously a temporary lapse in judgement."

"Says the man who went through the five stages of grief in as many days."

Ever wise on hie feet, Kurt took the jibe for what it was and let the topic drop. "Despite your negative demeanor," he replies, as pompously as possible, "I approve your plans."

"I knew you would."

"Onward and outward."

They moved in silence from that moment forward. First the boat needed to be hidden in an inconspicuous location. Then they shed their sefaring clothes, the outfits underneath proving less incriminating. Once both objectives had been met, the duo walked together out to the main path which led into Doresetshire square.

White sand interspersed with sharp pieces of gravel crunched beneath their booted feet, making way to a trail of dark soil and the occasional wayward tree branch. Human debris as well as wildlife detritus lined both sides of the primitive road. Kurt pointedly kept his gaze ahead of himself, one hand itching to hold his embroidered handkerchief to his nose.

As fortune would have it, the pirates traveled the path unaccosted. The first person they encountered, a man on horseback claiming to be the village constable, asked only what business they embarked upon. They answered with a half truth: the Jones' bakery and its delicious foods. Deeming them harmless, he waved them through with no further hassle.

Santana grumpily accompanied Kurt to /Sugar and Spice/; aptly named in Kurt' s opinion, "unoriginal and uninspired" in Santana's. Regardless of the name, both pirates agreed the woman's pastries were worth dying over.

Inside the wooden cabin housing the business, one could almost forget how near they stood to the sea. The large hearth constantly imbued the space with warmth, the floor covered in burgundy dyed animal pelts and off-white upholstered chairs. The few windows boasted white curtains while the polished oak counter across the way cleanly divided the customer space from Mercedes' workspace. Kurt peered in that direction once he'd scanned the general vicinity for any possible threats, spying a halo of dark curls peeking over the large stove used for baking breads.

Kurt approached the counter, Santana following wearily behind. "Mercedes!" he called out, once his voice could be heard over the various appliances at work.

The woman in question jumped up, nearly overturning a pan carefully balanced against her hip. She caught it just before the cake it held could slide to the floor. Placing the dish on the work dtation behind her, she turned to face Kurt with a wide grin splitting her full lips.

"Kurt, mon ami!" She spread her arms wide in invitation and Kurt hurried his strides to meet her embrace happily. "What brings you into my neck of the woods?" she inquired, giving his waist a gentle squeeze.

Kurt kissed both her cheeks in his customary greeting before releasing her and leaning back across the counter. "Your cheesecake, of course."

"It is quite decadent," she agreed, her voice taking on a posh English accent which sent Kurt into a fit of giggles.

"Just give him a piece so we can be on our merry way," Santana groused as she took a seat on one of the stools spanning the counter. She dropped her elbows to the tabletop loudly, inducing matching winces from her companions, before cradling her face in her hands and sighing. "All this small talk is intolerable."

Kurt took the seat beside her, signalling Mercedes to bring their usual order: lemon cheesecake for himself and a dark chocolate cookie to satisfy Santana's secret sweet tooth. For someone with such an acidic tongue, Santana loved chocolate as much as the next woman.

Mercedes joined them with their respective desserts a moment later, chatting across the counter as she worked to complete other dishes for various patrons as they came and left. Kurt, and Santana (though she'd never admit it aloud), enjoyed her company as much as the scrumptious foods.

An hour later found the trio bidding each other farewell and parting ways. Kurt, sad as he felt to leave his friend, couldn't help the budding anticipation flowering in his belly with every step away from the bakery. Each step (hopefully) brought him closer to Nightbird.

"Oh God, I can feel your excitement from here," Santana muttered irritably. "Get a grip, Captain."

Kurt refused to prove her right by responding, so instead he huffed and quicked his pace.

Santana merely laughed, her voice fading as he left her behind.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Soooo... I'm not dead. Just a bit of a procrastinator.**_

_**I just want to say ahead of time: This is the first time I've ever written smut for a story that I actually posted for public perusal so if it's horrible, I apologize. Don't feel like you HAVE to read it. There are some very light dom/sub undertones.**_

_**If smut isn't your thing, just let me know and I can tell you the gist of what happened.**_

_**If smut IS your thing, well then have at it. I hope I don't disappoint.**_

_**Kudos to my HLP Sara for being my unofficial beta on this chapter because I was so paranoid about it being horrible. I love you.**_

_**This specific chapter is dedicated to user **_kate-sama _**(who hopefully sees this).**_

_**There's a little scene at the beginning of this chapter that somehow went missing when I posted but once I get to an actual computer rather than just my phone, I'll add it in and fix any mistakes.**_

* * *

A beat of silence passed. Kurt nearly turned and left, but his pride and a healthy amount of curiosity held him frozen. The door suddenly inched open wide enough for a dark brown iris to come into view.

"You came," Blaine's voice sounded through the crack of space.

"I did," Kurt replied, unsure as to whether he had made the best or the most idiotic decision of his life.

The door slowly slid back further, allowing Blaine's body to come fully into view. Kurt's breath left him in a soft exhale as everything about the moment hit him with the force of a speeding caravan.

Blaine's moonlit features morphed into a cocky smirk as the seconds stretched and the moment shattered, everything falling back into place as Kurt's traitorous cheeks burned. He'd been caught staring. Again.

"Would you like to come inside?"

Kurt stepped forward in answer, Blaine wordlessly moving aside to allow entrance.

Kurt had a second to survey his surroundings before the door clicked shut and sheltered them within the darkness left in its wake. The outside in no way reflected the inside.

In his brief glance alone, Kurt noticed a four poster bed with a linen canopy, a dinner table made of marble, and a large porcelain claw-footed bathtub. He could imagine what other luxuries filled the space.

Kurt jumped when a hand gripped his forearm, quickly forcing himself into a calmer demeanor as Blaine chuckled. He tore himself from the other pirate's grasp with an irritated huff, keeping his gaze anywhere but Blaine.

"Sorry," Blaine said, entirely unapologetic.

"Why are we here?"

Blaine scoffed. Kurt could imagine the smirk residing on his features. The thought scared him. That he could know Blaine well enough already to anticipate or correctly predict his facial expressions. He pushed the thought out of his head before it could affect him further.

"Not one to beat around the bush," Blaine observed, distinctly amused. "I like it."

"Are you going to answer the question or just compliment me all night?"

"That tongue can get you into trouble, Porcelain. But I think I know a better use for it."

Kurt's brows rose. "How forward of you," he replied dryly.

This time the hand gripping his forearm pulled him forward into Blaine's personal space, the heat of him running through Kurt's fingers splayed against his toned chest down to his toes. He fought the shiver running up his spine.

As his eyes finally adjusted to the dimness of the room, Kurt found Blaine's face. First his lips, parted in a tempting little "o". Then his eyes, dark and blazing all at once.

"Oops," Blaine breathed. His breath puffed warmly against Kurt's mouth, the air tasting faintly sweet and acidic when Kurt breathed in. "How forward of me."

Kurt turned his head before his foggy brain acted on a stupid impulse. Like kissing Blaine. Or pushing him up against the nearest solid surface and rutting against him until he hit his peak. Or worse. "You're forgiven."

"Shall we seal it with a kiss?"

Kurt found himself facing Blaine again before he could process a single thought, let alone verbalize an answer. In the next second a set of firm, plush lips pressed against his own.

Blaine hummed in approval, his head tilting to find the perfect angle. Kurt let himself be pulled along for the ride.

Kissing Blaine again felt like remembering how to breathe after nearly drowning.

Kurt inhaled deeply through his nose, his nostrils taking in the scent of sweat and sea water and something inexplicably like wine but somehow darker.

Blaine pulled away far enough to take a long, stabilizing breath into his lungs. Without a word his hands slid down Kurt's arms while his lips lowered to worship the stretch of skin across Kurt's Adam's apple.

"Mmm."

Blaine dragged his teeth down to the vee of skin where neck met collarbone, nosing away the fabric of Kurt's tunic before biting softly just above the jutting bone. "Like that, do you?"

Kurt nodded, his head falling back and his gaze fixated on the spot of ceiling directly above them. A jolt of electricity raced through his bloodstream as Blaine feathered light kisses from one shoulder to the other, each press of lips on skin becoming lighter. Another nip of teeth graced his opposite collarbone.

"I thought you might." Blaine's hands reappeared at the topmost button of Kurt's shirt, slipping the object out of its confinement. He puffed air against the newly revealed skin, visibly pleased as goosebumps erupted along the path of his breath. "This is only the beginning. I have so many other things planned."

Kurt whimpered, having Blaine so close doing little to hinder his building arousal. The grit in Blaine's voice didn't help matters either.

Shh," Blaine hushed, his breath tickling the shell of Kurt's ear. The man moved quickly for someone of a smaller stature. "I need you to do something for me first."

Kurt nodded emphatically, the knot of emotion lodged in his throat making it difficult to speak.

"I need you to promise me you'll tell me if it becomes too much or if you need me to stop. Do that, and I'll make you feel phenomenal. Sound fair?"

Kurt nodded again, swallowing thickly at the look in Blaine's eyes. The pools of brown he'd become accustomed to were blown dark with unrestrained arousal. "I promise."

"Good." Hot lips pressed against Kurt's, muffling any further response. One slicked finger prodded carefully around Kurt's entrance, the sudden intrusion catching him by surprise. Apparently the man known as Nightbird had a dominant streak and knew how to wield it.

Kurt couldn't help but groan as Blaine distracted him with that talented tongue, passing softly across the roof of his mouth before tangling with his own tongue. His hands found their way into Blaine's hair of their own accord and he silently rallied his victory when they were allowed to stay there. He relished the texture of loose curls rubbing against his fingertips.

Just as the tip of Blaine's tongue caressed the roof of his mouth for the third time, the blunt tip of Blaine's index finger breached the first ring of muscle past Kurt's rim. A gasp left the paler man's lips at the moment of intrusion and Blaine paused to rub soothing circles into the small of Kurt's back.

"Relax," he whispered, and slowly Kurt felt his body follow the suggestion. "That's it. You're so good for me, sweetheart."

Kurt looked askance at the other man for a moment, but soon forgot his reservations as Blaine questing digit began to move in earnest. Kurt's questioning thoughts flew away as discomfort turned into pleasure. He didn't even question how or when Blaine had applied lubrication to his fingers as a second digit joined the first.

His backside burned with a dull ache. Kurt idly wondered just how long the prep would last.

"Soon," Blaine said then, as if he could read Kurt's thoughts. "Just a little more."

After what felt like an eternity of being stretched and slicked, Blaine deemed him ready and asked for Kurt's assistance in removing the clothing still separating them. It was only in that moment Kurt realized Blaine had remained completely dressed the entire time with the exception of his bare feet.

Quickly divested of his breeches and undergarments, Blaine aligned their bodies so that he lined up with Kurt's entrance. Kurt's neglected erection lay aching between them, the victim of Blaine's planned torture.

Kurt had been close to orgasm no less than three times only to be left on the brink. Blaine brought him back each time, promising that the end result would be worth the trouble. Kurt certainly hoped so. He felt like he would burst the second Blaine pushed inside.

In one fell swoop, Blaine thrust forward until he met the first sign of resistance. Both men moaned at the feeling, the connection all the more intense for the amount of anticipation hanging tense in the air up until that point. Blaine carefully pushed further inside until his entire length was sheathed within the tight heat Kurt's body provided.

"Fuck," Kurt whined, his voice coming out high-pitched and breathless.

"Yeah," Blaine agreed lightly. "You okay?"

"Yes," Kurt answered, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears.

In time Blaine developed a rhythm to his thrusts that had Kurt panting beneath him, fingers unconsciously tugging on Blaine's hair each time his prostate was hit. Blaine moaned when Kurt gave a particularly rough tug, burying his face in Kurt's throat and sucking a mark into the already reddening skin.

"Close," Kurt murmured.

"Not yet," Blaine replied, slowing his strokes. "Not until I say so."

Kurt whimpered but acquiesced, using what self-restraint he had left to keep his orgasm at bay. It seemed neither of them wanted this encounter to end just yet.

A stretch of languid kisses followed Blaine's proclamation, leading into something deeper and more heated. Blaine's hands moved up Kurt's body from where he'd been gripping Kurt's hips to cradle his face as they kissed, tipping Kurt's chin further up to indulge in a better angle.

Tanned fingers clenched tight as Blaine slammed his hips against Kurt's in a way that made the bed creak.

"Okay," Blaine said between kisses. "Now."

Within the span of a handful of deep, powerful thrusts, Kurt found himself back on the precipice. He moaned Blaine's name, half in warning and half lost in the clouds of nameless bliss.

Blaine pulled away far enough to lock eyes with the man lying beneath him, the both of them doused in sweat and wild-eyed. "Do it," he ordered softly. "Come on, baby."

Two precise presses against his prostate pushed Kurt over the edge, Blaine's name spilling from him like a mantra. Blaine continued his movements until he followed suit, "Kurt," uttered from his throat in an animal-like growl.

Sated and spent, neither man moved for a long moment. Kurt let the fleeting feeling of serenity float over him, gazing down at the man tracing circles across his chest. There was such a stark change between Blaine during sex and Blaine after sex.

Possibly feeling his gaze on him, Blaine looked up and locked eyes. They held a certain softness that Kurt hadn't seen since the last time he saw his mother before the incident that took her away from him forever.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Kurt asked, bemused.

"For finding me again."

Kurt shrugged. "I couldn't have forgotten you if I tried."

Blaine slid over and placed a kiss to Kurt's lips. "I'm glad."


End file.
